


Electric Love

by RogueTranslator



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bathing/Washing, Bee-Lover Castiel (Supernatural), Camping, Castiel and Dean Winchester Falling in Love, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Dragon Castiel (Supernatural), Dragons, Dreams and Nightmares, Enemies to Lovers, Fairy Tale Elements, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Forgiveness, Frottage, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Horse Impala (Supernatural), Humor, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Knight Dean Winchester, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Meet-Cute, Meet-Ugly, Mildly Dubious Consent, Morally Ambiguous Character, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Power Imbalance, Protective Dean Winchester, Quests, Revenge, Romance, Secret Identity, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Amnesia, Transformation, Wizard Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28028211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueTranslator/pseuds/RogueTranslator
Summary: Twenty-one years ago, a yellow-eyed fire dragon killed Dean’s mother. Sixteen years later, the same dragon claimed his father.Dean could be excused for hating dragons.With the Northern Kingdoms in chaos after the disappearance of the crown prince, Dean strikes out as a knight-errant, intent on avenging his parents’ deaths. After nearly five years of wandering, he’s no closer to Yellow-Eyes than when he started.His coin purse all but empty, he’s considering a return to his brother’s spare bed in Lebanon to regroup. That’s when he happens upon a sleepy village, blighted by drought, where the inhabitants claim to be tormented by a dragon with command over lightning, wind, and rain. Blue-Eyes, they call him.He isn’t the dragon Dean is hunting, but he’ll do. No dragon can be suffered to live.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 49
Collections: The AO3 SPN Kink Meme





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [theao3spnkinkmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/theao3spnkinkmeme) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Knight Dean goes successfully fights dragon (which flies away and/or seems to vanish) and rescues unconscious prince from the ruins of the dragon's lair. 
> 
> Castiel wakes up on the way back, being a very annoyed dragon in human form who is apparently being kidnapped? Crack ensues.

The village, called Pontiac, lay at the bottom of the wooded vale, about an hour’s journey on horseback from the top of the mountain pass. Dean gently pulled Baby’s reins and took in the lay of the land. The sky was hot and clear all the way to the red sun on the horizon, unnaturally so for early summer in the Middle Kingdoms. Just like the last dozen valleys and villages.

Dean clicked his tongue, and Baby began to sway down the dusty, well-beaten pass. He didn’t know why he’d hoped for anything different when he’d crested this latest mountain ridge. It had been this way throughout the land for six months now, and concern for the year’s harvest had lately extended beyond the peasantry, to court scholars and even the lords themselves. Most troubling of all, drought meant that the local taverns were hiking up the prices of ale and mead. Alcohol was cresting in value for any number of reasons, not least because no one could say how long it would be until the wells ran dry.

With a sigh, Dean girded himself for the possibility that he wouldn’t be able to afford much beyond gruel at the hamlet’s inn. His coin purse was as void as his belly; uncertain times meant that there were fewer marks to hustle at cards, and work as a knight-errant was anything but reliable. He didn’t have high hopes that this inn would have much in the way of employment, but what choice did he have other than to keep looking?

He reached the outskirts of the village and immediately gathered that things were direr here than on the other side of the mountain. The ribs on the cows, not just the dogs, were visible, which meant that the common folk were falling behind on providing for one of their only forms of sustenance. He stopped in front of a burned-out cottage and grimaced at the two fresh graves in the sideyard. A girl of eight or nine with huge eyes stared at him from above the sill of one of the ruined windows.

“Hello,” Dean said. “Is this your house?”

She vanished like a ghost. Dean sighed and trotted on, trying not to think of what would become of her. Very few orphans were as lucky as him and Sam.

At the inn—which was called “The Roadhouse” in spite of the fact that it wasn’t fronted by anything that could properly be called a road—Dean tied up Baby at the horse trough and paused to read the notice board. There were more papers pinned to it than he’d expected for a settlement of this size, and he felt a moment of hope that there’d be a job for the taking matching his competencies. What he found instead was gibberish that only became more mystifying the further he read.

“‘We’ll have to steal honey from the market towns, consequences be damned,’” Dean mumbled. He flipped open another one. “‘Organizing an expedition into the lord’s woods to collect beehives. Fortnight commitment required.’” Another: “‘This is about life or death. Blue-Eyes demands more honey. Our only choice is to raid Jericho’s orchards. Meet at the bottom of the pass on the night of the next full moon.’”

Dean frowned. Jericho was the last village he’d stayed in, the one over the mountain. It was an apple-farming community, mainly, which explained why the people here would raid it for honey. But why the hell did they want it so badly? It wouldn’t feed their cows or water their fields.

He gathered the papers and walked up to the inn, hoping there’d be someone in there with answers. It was crowded inside, but quiet, and Dean had the absurd feeling that he’d interrupted a private moment that the two dozen or so patrons within had all been sharing. Some faces turned to gawk at him, but most had the good manners to watch him in sidelong glances. The air smelled of turnips that had been sitting on the fire all day and, below that, stale alcohol. Maybe the reason these villagers wanted all that honey was to make mead. Booze made people do crazy things; he knew that better than most.

“Sir Knight,” said the landlady, with the barest hint of a curtsy. “I welcome you.”

Dean mounted one of the open bar stools, his armor clinking as he settled his wrists on the counter. He smoothed the papers flat on the rough wood, turning them so they’d face her.

“I just rode from Jericho,” he said. “Why do your men want its honey so dearly?”

She glanced at someone over his shoulder, then out the open door. Her hand continued drying the goblet she held all the while.

“Is it for mead?” Dean demanded. “Are you such drunkards here that you’d rob your neighbors of their livelihood before allowing yourselves to go dry?”

She let out a sharp, derisive peal of laughter. Dean glanced around, mindful of the looks he’d gotten when he walked in. Something wasn’t right in this village, and he needed to keep his wits about him.

“How sweet it’d be if the honey were for us. No, sire. It’s for Blue-Eyes.”

“Ellen,” came a man’s gruff voice, closer to Dean’s back than he was comfortable with. “Hold your tongue.”

“Blue-Eyes,” Dean murmured. He found the scrap of paper with that name. “That’s who’s making you raid Jericho?”

“We should tell him,” Ellen said above Dean’s head. “He’s a knight. Maybe he could—”

Now it was the man’s turn to laugh. He plopped onto the stool to Dean’s left and leered at him.

“A knight? With those long eyelashes and plump lips? I’d bet my life he’s slain more maiden hearts than he has worthy foes.”

“Then you’d be a dead man,” Dean said. He dropped his hand towards the hilt of his sword, just enough to send a message.

“Please, sire,” Ellen said. “He’s speaking nonsense. We’re all addled from the heat, the lack of food—”

“Tell me who Blue-Eyes is,” Dean said. He held out the paper to the man. “You’re rash enough to speak impudently to me; surely you’re one of the men going on this raid.”

The man looked at the paper and swallowed. “I am. But I shouldn’t—we’re not supposed to—”

“Blue-Eyes,” Ellen said, leaning into the bar, “is a dragon.”

Dean gasped. The piece of paper fell to the tavern floor.

“No,” the man groaned. “What’ve you done? If he finds out….”

“We’re desperate,” Ellen said. “Blue-Eyes is punishing us because our offerings stopped. Our crops have failed; our stream has dried up. What do we have left?”

“Our lives,” the man said glumly. “If he finds out we betrayed him to a knight….”

“If nothing changes, we’ll succumb to drought or famine soon enough. A quick death at the hands of Blue-Eyes might even be preferable at this point.”

Dean stared out the door at the sunset over the valley, their bickering fading into the background. A dragon, after all this time! How long had it been since his last solid lead on one? And that had turned out to be nothing more than a cockatrice. A dangerous foe and a lucrative contract, but a disappointment all the same.

“This dragon,” Dean said. “I assume you named it after its eye color.”

“Aye, sire,” said the man, still with some hesitation. “Cold blue eyes, like a clear winter morning. They’re the first thing you’ll notice about the beast, I’m sure of it. It’s like they can see straight into your soul.”

This wasn’t the dragon he was hunting, then—the one that had slain his mother, then his father sixteen years later. The one that he’d sworn to put an end to if it cost him his last breath. That one had yellow eyes, the color of amber. From what he knew of dragons, their eyes were points of pride, markers of their status and identity among their own kind. They wouldn’t change them even if they could—certainly not to evade a single knight.

It didn’t matter, though. As far as Dean was concerned, all dragons deserved to die. He would hunt this one.

“Tell me all you know of this dragon,” Dean said. “Spare no detail.”

Ellen served him a bowl of turnip stew, half a round of bread, and a tankard of ale. She leaned her hip into the counter and recounted to Dean the village’s history with Blue-Eyes, saying she’d leave it to the man—whose name Dean finally learned was Ash—to describe the beast’s appearance and behavior, as he’d seen it more closely in the course of his trips up the mountain.

Blue-Eyes had arrived in the valley seven years ago, on the wings of a storm. A pair of hunters who’d been caught in the wilderness by the sudden change in weather swore, once they’d returned soaked and shivering to the Roadhouse, that a winged shadow larger than the entire village had soared over them, alighting on the ruined watchtower straddling the ridge above. It gave a single, mournful cry, and that was the last they heard or saw of it as they ran for their lives.

“Everyone dismissed them at the time,” she said. “It wasn’t until a different group of deer hunters went up there the next spring that we learned they’d been telling the truth.”

The dragon, apparently, had descended from the tower to speak to them. Dean found that odd. Though dragons _could_ speak to humans, almost none of them condescended to do so. And to do it with complete strangers—common folk, even, not sorcerers—was unheard of.

“He was curious about them, about the village. They were scared out of their wits, of course, but answered his questions as best they could. Finally, he said that he’d just woken up from a long sleep and was ravenous.”

“Imagine hearing that,” Ash whistled. “I’d soil my smallclothes.”

“Obviously, he didn’t eat them, since they lived to tell the tale.” Ellen refilled Dean’s bowl with stew. “He asked for them to bring him any food they could spare. He promised to bless the village if they did as he said.”

Another strange detail. Dragons didn’t typically engage in reciprocal exchange—they demanded and threatened, or simply took. Dean felt a twinge of doubt. What if his father’s journal and the scholarship on dragons were incomplete somehow? Perhaps some of them could be reasoned with.

“We all filled the carts with what we could part with. Sheep and pigs; vegetables and fruits; cheeses and breads and jugs of ale. The hunters returned to the tower and bent their knees, and the dragon ate and drank his fill. He praised the village and said he would make us prosperous for as long as we served him. Then, with a great flap of his wings, the skies opened with rain, quenching the land.”

“This valley’s always been dry,” Ash explained. “A desert, practically. But it has rich soil. We found that out once Blue-Eyes gave us all the rain we’d ever need. The dry land bloomed. Every crop you can imagine flourished here. People and animals had more young; every species of wild game migrated here to feast on the lush forests. We were able to bring our surplus to the market town downriver and return with all sorts of goods we’d never had before.”

Dean put down his spoon and wiped his mouth. “So, what changed?”

“A couple years back, we sent a vat of honey up the mountain with the rest of the food. Just one more thing we had an excess of, with all the new flowers to feed the bees. Blue-Eyes was overjoyed when he tasted the honey. He said that he wanted more in the next shipment, more after that….” Ellen sighed. “Eventually, he only wanted honey, nothing else. And not just that. He wanted the beehives, too, so he could see where the honey came from. Maybe he didn’t know that removing the beehives from their natural location meant that the honey would stop flowing.”

Dean scratched his cheek. What kind of dragon only ate honey? Virgin sacrifices, or at least cows and goats, were more typical.

“Once we ran out of honey, Blue-Eyes became angry with us. He warned us not to show our faces to him again unless we had honey to offer him. The rains stopped. The land—” Ellen gestured to the open door. “It returned to what it once was. Some people left; others died. We’ll all do one or the other soon enough. It’s even drier than it was before Blue-Eyes.”

“What more can you tell me?” Dean said, nodding to Ash.

“He’s large,” Ash said. “Forty, fifty feet long. A hundred feet, maybe more, from wingtip to wingtip.”

That _was_ large. Not the largest ever documented, and still smaller than Yellow-Eyes, but clearly not a cockatrice or even a wyvern.

“He has dark blue scales along the sides of his body and on his arms and legs—or all four legs, I’m not sure what the right term is. And a white stripe running down his neck, all the way to his abdomen. His wings and back are the color of sand. There are dark brown spikes—horns?—sticking up from his head at strange angles. And I’ve already told you about his eyes.”

“What of his abilities?” Dean said. “You’ve already mentioned his command over the wind and rain. Have you witnessed him doing anything else unnatural?”

“I can’t say for sure, sire, but it sounds like thunder when he speaks. Low, rumbling. And he came in on a tempest. I imagine he wields lightning and all the other powers of the storm. Thankfully, I’ve never had occasion to confirm that.”

Dean thanked them, rose up with a nod to the rest of the inn, and stepped out into the twilight. It was cooler now—dry air didn’t hold heat very well. A small mercy.

He unlaced Baby and brought her to the road. It was only a few days before the full moon, so traveling by night was easy. At the very least, they could make it to the other side of the valley and get a couple hours of sleep before setting up the mountain at dawn. Maybe he’d get lucky and happen upon Blue-Eyes while he slumbered.

As they ambled over the parched earth, Dean peered at the tower in the distance, going over what he knew. He didn’t have to confer with his father’s journal; every word he’d written about dragons had been seared into Dean’s mind from a young age.

This was a thunder dragon, no doubt about it. Ash had been right: they did hurl lightning in battle, as well as shockwaves, downbursts, squalls, and every other expression of their mastery over the heavens. They were one of the rarest and most mysterious of dragon subtypes, and John’s journal only had a few question mark-riddled lines about them. Dean had never battled one himself, but he’d seen a few traveling across the sky on his journeys, trailing dark storm clouds behind them.

What he didn’t comprehend was Blue-Eyes’s initial benevolence. There were dragons that demanded worship and in turn protected their cult from the outside world; Dean had even fought and killed one high up in the Western Mountains. But all this dragon seemed interested in was eating honey and being left alone. He supposed he couldn’t even blame him too much for not granting the region rain. It wasn’t as if he were blighting the land, really—he was just permitting it to return to its natural state.

In the end, though, it didn’t matter. Blue-Eyes was a dragon, and dragons had to be slain.

* * *

Castiel hated when the moon was this bright. It always shone so radiantly over the top of the tower, making it difficult to get any rest. Sometimes, he thought about bringing back the rainclouds just so they’d cover that bothersome alabaster orb.

Well, that wasn’t going to happen. If the villagers weren’t going to do their job, he wouldn’t be doing his.

He sighed and opened his eyes, giving up on sleep. He stretched his neck to peer at his beehives, which he’d arranged around himself on the tower’s roof like the seats of a round table. There were fewer and fewer bees each day, but he didn’t know why. He speculated that it had something to do with them not liking the location, but they were too delicate for him to move to a new one. Humans would have to do it, and none of those came to visit him any longer.

With a shake of his wings, he turned a bit before gently hopping off his tower, only spreading out to catch the valley’s currents once he’d fallen far enough for his draft to not disturb the hives. He still watched over his territory each night, even if its inhabitants had forsaken him. More than a few parties of nocturnal raiders, lured by Pontiac’s sudden prosperity, had been singed by his thunderbolts over the years, all while the village slept. There hadn’t been many of those lately, though he didn’t have to guess why.

He let himself glide down to the fields at the mouth of the vale, enjoying the cool tingle of the night air over his scales and wings. On most evenings, he began his patrol here, following the streambed down to where it joined with the river before circling back to the village and forests further in. Tonight, though, something was different.

A solitary knight on a black steed, his armor glinting in the moonlight.

The people of Pontiac had warned him about men in plate armor on horses. They’d said that some of these men made it their mission to hunt and kill Castiel’s kind. At some point, the bargain between him and the villagers had grown to include them turning away these men, making them feel unwelcome. But now…it was fair, Castiel supposed, that they were no longer holding to that.

He landed, close enough to the knight for his horse to stamp and whinny at the gust of wind. Dead grass and clods of dry dirt sprayed in every direction. Behind his silver helmet, the man’s face was invisible. Something about the heraldry on his cuirass sparked recognition in Castiel, though he couldn’t place it.

“Who are you?” shouted the knight.

Castiel moved a bit to the right, circling him. “I’m the one they call Blue-Eyes.”

“Yeah, I figured that much. I mean your real name. Every dragon has one.”

Castiel stopped where his shadow blotted out the moon, plunging the knight into darkness.

“Why do you want to know?”

“So I can add your name to the list of dragons I’ve slain,” he said, full of rancor.

Castiel tilted his head. “Do I deserve to die? For what reason?”

The knight didn’t seem to have a ready reply for that. He shifted his grip on his horse’s reins.

“I don’t need a reason. The world would be better off without any of your kind.”

“Before me, this valley grew more sand than wheat. And I could return the rains to it, if only—” Castiel stared at the village wistfully. “If only they would bring me honey. I don’t see why it’s so much to ask.”

“Enough talk! You’re a monster, and I’m ending you.”

“I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

The knight charged forward, his movement like ball lightning over the desiccated farmland. Before Castiel could take flight, he’d plunged his lance deep between Castiel’s ribs. Castiel roared.

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

Castiel nudged the lance with his wing, trying to dislodge it or at least break it off. It wasn’t a mortal blow, but it made it hard to extend his left wing. He was so absorbed in the task that he only noticed the knight coming around for another charge when he was almost upon him. There was a crossbow in his hand now—black and silver, like horse and knight—and Castiel heard a sharp thwack.

He collapsed to the ground in agony. The bolt had pierced his heart; this he knew instantly. However, his fall had had the unforeseen boon of breaking off the lance, which meant that he could fly normally. If he could just reach the tower…well, perhaps he’d still die. But there was at least a chance he might survive. Dragons could regenerate wounds that would be fatal to any other living thing.

With a great heave, Castiel flapped up, listing towards his mountaintop. A few more of the knight’s arrows whizzed by, and one glanced off his tail. Luckily, there was a generous updraft coming up from the valley floor at this time of the night, and Castiel rode it, clenching his left arm against his chest to stanch the bleeding.

He wasn’t dead yet; that was the main thing. And yet, Castiel could tell that something was wrong. This was no normal bolt. He could feel his power ebbing away, his draconic essence receding in tandem with the expiration of his body. Some type of dragon-killing poison? The villagers had never mentioned that. Perhaps they hadn’t known.

Castiel’s vision was foggy; he was barely staying airborne. The tower was close, but he didn’t think he could make it all the way there and still have enough strength remaining to heal himself. He had so little left already.

His wings made the choice for him. They gave out over the ruined walls, and he tumbled down into some dank portion of the ancient fortress that he’d never bothered going into before. He slid helplessly, crashing in a heap against a pile of rocks.

The pain was tremendous. He had to get the bolt out, though. With all the energy he could muster, he ejected the quarrel and the broken-off lance, batting them out over the battlements with his wing in case even their proximity was deleterious. Blood was everywhere, staining the white stripe down his middle and pooling in the dirt below.

Castiel curled into a ball, focusing on repairing the damage. He thought he felt the hole in his heart closing, maybe the one at the base of the lungs. Maybe—maybe he wouldn’t die tonight.

That was when he blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean began the climb up the mountain at dawn. Though he’d wanted to pursue Blue-Eyes immediately, the moon had slipped behind the promontory at the mouth of the valley, which made scaling the path by night impossible, even on foot. He’d laid down by the dry streambed and tried to get at least a couple hours of sleep. There was too much adrenaline flowing through his veins for that, though, and he’d spent the entire rest of the night thinking.

Blue-Eyes was the sixth dragon he’d faced down and—depending on what Dean found upon investigating the lair—either the fourth he’d killed or the third that had slipped his grasp. This one was by far the largest of the six, and distinct in several other ways besides. He hadn’t attempted to fight back, even just with his wings or claws. He’d expressed regret for the hardship he’d caused for the villagers. He’d attempted to reason with Dean. All of this was unheard of.

Dean had felt his resolve slipping. He’d actually been considering laying down his weapons and talking with the beast. That was far more frightening than anything he’d experienced in the fires of combat. That was why he’d struck, hot and quick. Maybe Blue-Eyes had the power to influence human minds—not an ability traditionally ascribed to thunder dragons, but why take chances? Better to be safe than sorry.

Still, he had the nagging feeling that he’d acted dishonorably, or at least rashly. Perhaps if the conversation had continued, Blue-Eyes could have been convinced to return the rains to the Middle Kingdoms. He’d really seemed befuddled about the honey, as if he didn’t see why removing all the beehives from the forest would cause the supply to dry up.

Then again, maybe he was just a liar, trying to soften Dean up with deceit before chomping him in his first moment of carelessness. Like Yellow-Eyes had done to his dad.

Dean tried to shake off any second thoughts as Baby wound through the larches and junipers that lined the ascent. It wasn’t as if he could change anything now. The deed was done, for good or for ill.

At the beginning of the ruins, Dean slowed down to survey the area. There was a stone gatehouse, mostly rubble now, and then a long courtyard rimmed by battlements. The tower jutted out from the cliff at the opposite end, reinforcing the corner position of the fortification with a commanding view of the valley below. The ancients, despite living thousands of years ago, had understood defensive theory just as well as any contemporary engineer.

Baby walked them down the centerline of the courtyard. Dean kept one hand on his crossbow, ready to hoist it at the slightest noise. For creatures of such immense size and weight, dragons could be surprisingly stealthy when they needed to be.

Dean heard a rustle and immediately pointed his bow. It had come from the shadows underneath the demolished walkways. Likely some birds or vermin—he’d certainly see a dragon the size of Blue-Eyes poking out of that recess, in any case. Dean clucked for Baby to keep going.

They’d only moved a few paces when another sound came from the same location. This time, it sounded uncannily like a human groan.

Dean dismounted, trading his crossbow for his sword as he moved towards the disturbance. It was possible that Blue-Eyes had taken some human prisoners. The people at the inn hadn’t mentioned any, but perhaps it’d happened so long ago that they’d given up hope.

When he reached the edge of the courtyard and the lower ramparts came into view, Dean was astonished by what he saw. There, curled up in the dirt and debris, was a naked man. The sun pierced through an opportune slit in the crumbling parapets above him, illuminating his body as if by divine providence.

Dean raced back to Baby and retrieved his cloak from one of the saddlebags. When he returned to the man, he covered his modesty before squatting down to assess his condition. He’d only made it through the most cursory inspection—he was weak, but alive—before he realized whose face he was beholding.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean murmured, biting his tongue over his vulgarity too late. “Prince Castiel?”

* * *

The first thing Castiel felt was cool water.

There was something soft and damp sliding over his forehead, then his eyelids. He dimly assumed it to be the tongue of some type of wild animal that had found him at the base of the ruins. Perhaps it thought he was already dead and so was staking its claim to the carcass. It was in for an unpleasant surprise once he blinked, stretched his neck fifteen feet into the air, and roared in indignation.

The tongue finally left his face. He cracked his eyes open. The glare through the trees was harsh, but the glint of silver armor immediately caught his eye. He took in a sharp breath and recoiled.

“Your Highness? It’s—it’s okay. I’m here.”

“You?” Castiel gasped. “What—what’s happening?”

The knight raised a damp handkerchief to Castiel’s cheek. So, that’s what the ‘tongue’ had been. His helmet was off now, and Castiel was taken aback at how young he was. He couldn’t have been much older than a quarter-century.

“You’re injured,” the knight said. “I’m cleaning your wounds. Try not to move.”

Castiel glared. Of course he was injured; this brute had brought him to the brink of death.

“Why are you doing this?” Castiel said. His voice sounded…strange. Smaller. “After all, I’m a—”

“You’re my prince,” interrupted the knight. “How could I not? I would lay down my very life for you, sire.”

“Prince?” Castiel said deliriously.

The knight grimaced, worry lines on his fair, freckled skin. His eyes, the color of juniper needles, widened in adoration as he stroked the cloth over Castiel’s cheek, even as the supple arch of his lips puckered with concern.

Castiel looked away. The knight’s frank admiration was not only confusing; it seemed simply inappropriate between a man and a dragon.

That was when he realized, his eyes cast down towards his body, that he was no longer a dragon.

“No,” Castiel cried. “No!”

“Sire?”

He had a soft, ungainly, _human_ body. Not only that, but he was covered up by some cloak emblazoned with that pig’s heraldry.

“Your Highness? What troubles you?”

Castiel knocked the knight’s hand away and leapt to his feet. The cloak fell to the ground. The knight’s eyes traveled in the same direction as the fabric, widening as they went, before guiltily snapping back up.

“I’m—I’m cold,” Castiel said, puzzled. “Colder than I’ve been in a long time.”

The knight fell to his knees, gathered up the cloak, and wrapped it around Castiel just under his armpits.

“I don’t want to wear this!” Castiel protested.

“I’m sorry, sire. I don’t have anything else to clothe you with right now. Unless—” he looked down at his cuirass. “Unless you’d have me give you the clothes off my back. They may not fit you very well, but you’d at least have something until we can get back to the village.”

As much as it would have pleased Castiel to humiliate the knight in this way, he wasn’t about to wear anything that he’d been sweating in for days, maybe longer. He’d stick with the cloak.

“This will do,” Castiel said evenly. He slumped back against the stones, groaning. “I have no idea what’s going on.”

The knight rushed over, bringing the cool towel to Castiel’s cheek again. Castiel closed his eyes.

“It’s the year 1518. You disappeared from the royal palace in Providence seven years ago, the night of the dragon attack. After a two-year search through all five lands, your father reluctantly declared you dead.” Dean’s hand paused. “You truly have a strength like none other, sire, to have survived as the dragon’s prisoner all these years. I’m sorry for not finding you sooner. As one of your father’s knights, I’m as responsible as anyone for letting your captivity go on so long.”

Castiel groaned again. It didn’t seem like the knight was lying, but none of what he was saying made any sense to him. He was a dragon—had always been a dragon, ever since opening his eyes atop the tower seven years before. So why was he suddenly human, and why did this fool think he was his prince?

“I don’t remember,” Castiel managed to say. “I can’t….”

“It’s okay, sire,” the knight soothed. “Anyone would be shaken up by what you went through. What’s more, I doubt the dragon took very good care of you. Once we get you to a hot meal and a warm bed, though, things will start coming back.”

Castiel bristled at that. Presumptuous idiot. As if dragons weren’t capable of care. After all, he’d cared for the valley for years, not to mention the beehives—

“We must go up the tower,” Castiel said. He pushed himself vertical, swayed, let the knight steady him. He was good for that, at least.

“I don’t think that’s wise, sire,” said the knight, his brow creasing again. “The dragon could return at any moment. I fear that I failed to end him.”

 _Your fears are correct_ , Castiel thought, trying with all his might to prevent his hatred for this man from appearing on his face.

“You presume to tell me what is wise?” Castiel said, after a moment. He threw back his shoulders, jutted out his chin. Was this how princes behaved? He’d only overheard vague stories from the villagers.

“N—no, your Highness. I’m only thinking of your safety.”

“There’s some treasure atop the tower.” Castiel hobbled up the rubble, the knight supporting him around the shoulders as he found his footing. “That entices you, I imagine.”

The knight faltered. When Castiel turned to him, he saw that his entire face was flushed. He refused to meet Castiel’s eyes.

“I wish I could contradict your low opinion of me, sire.” The knight shook his head. “But it’s true; the path of a knight-errant is not a profitable one. I only have a few silver pieces in my coin purse. I’d hoped slaying the dragon—”

“There’s gold up there,” Castiel said, not wanting to hear any more of his self-pity. “Let us go.”

They reached the courtyard. The black steed from last night stood in the middle, waiting patiently. Castiel turned to the knight.

“Who are you?” Castiel said. He felt a frisson of pleasure at throwing those words back at him.

“Dean Winchester, of Lawrence. I apologize, your Highness. I was so astounded to find you alive that I forgot to introduce myself.”

“Lawrence,” Castiel repeated. Something about it sounded familiar.

“One of your father’s dominions. A hunting village—furs, mostly—due south of Providence. My father was one of the king’s knights.”

“And I am—” Castiel stopped himself. “How did you know who I am?”

“I was a squire at the royal palace,” Dean explained. “I saw you often. I would never forget the face of my prince.”

They’d reached the steed, which Dean informed him was named Baby. With some difficulty, Dean helped Castiel up. The position felt unbalanced and awkward, and Castiel fell forward into the horse’s mane before straightening upright again.

“Your body is still weak,” Dean said. “We’ll go slowly.”

Dean clicked his tongue. The horse strolled ahead, its hooves clacking on the ancient cobblestones. Dean walked alongside with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“Worry not, sire,” he said. “If the monster returns, I have a weapon which can defeat it. Or at least drive it away.”

The crossbow. Of course. Castiel didn’t see it on Dean, so he assumed that it was in one of the bags strapped to the horse’s flanks.

“You do?” Castiel said, feigning nonchalance. “What sort of weapon?”

“An enchanted crossbow,” Dean said proudly. “Woven with spellwork developed by my father, my brother. We’re a family of dragon hunters.”

“Very ingenious.” Castiel glowered at Dean’s back. “And how does it work, pray tell?”

“It drains a dragon’s essence from its body, back to the earth from whence it came. It’s the only way I know of to kill them; they seem to survive even the most grievous of normal wounds. You have to pierce the creature’s heart, but—” Dean turned around and smiled shyly. “I’m quite a good shot, sire.”

“You don’t say.”

“I don’t mean to be boastful. But out of the seven agilities a knight is expected to master, I had the most talent for marksmanship. I—” Dean hesitated. “I even took first place in a shooting tournament for squires that you presided over. You pinned the accolade to my breast.”

“And yet you said that you fear the dragon still lives,” Castiel said icily.

“Yes.” Dean hung his head. “I must have missed its heart. I don’t know how.”

“Could it be that you aren’t as good of a shot as you thought yourself?”

Dean’s broad shoulders slumped; he lowered his head further. It was clear that Castiel’s words had found their mark.

“Yes, sire. I apologize for failing you.”

Castiel smiled up at the tower, which they were now nearly at the base of. He was going to enjoy squashing this dope’s self-esteem. Though he wasn’t especially well-versed in human interactions, it seemed to Castiel that Dean had some sort of special affection for the prince he believed him to be. Harsh words from his lord’s lips wouldn’t come close to wounding Dean as much as he deserved, but Castiel couldn’t do much more in this inconvenient human body. His final revenge would have to wait until he found a way to return to his dragon form. Castiel preferred nonviolence, but it was clear that the world would be safer without this murderous savage in it.

“Let me help you down, sire.”

They’d reached the door of the tower. Castiel hopped from the horse’s back into Dean’s waiting arms. Dean steadied Castiel on the uneven stones, not letting go of his waist until Castiel nodded. His cheeks dimpled, and for a second Castiel thought he saw the boy he used to be. The kindness, the desire to do good, radiated off him, and Castiel wondered for a moment whether he’d misjudged.

“I’ll lead the way. Stay close; I’ll protect you.”

As they ascended the tower’s spiral staircase, Castiel banished his doubts. He’d show Dean just as much mercy as he’d shown him. Such was the way of the world. He grinned up at the racket Dean’s armor made as he climbed the steps. Metal was such a good conductor of electricity.

Castiel was so lost in pleasurable thoughts of frying Dean to a crisp that he bumped into his back, not realizing that he’d stopped moving. They were at the entrance of a large chamber about halfway up the tower.

“Apologies, your Highness.” Dean peered around the cobweb-strewn gloom. “I’m just trying to find a safe way forward. I fear there may be traps.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “There aren’t any traps. I would know; I’ve lived in this fortress for seven years.”

“I believe you, sire. But allow me the indulgence of going through ahead of you. Your safety is my sacred responsibility.”

Castiel slapped his forehead with his free hand. With any luck, the insufferable boob would trip and break his neck in the darkness. Castiel wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

“Sire!” Dean beckoned to him. “Follow me.”

Castiel shuffled behind. It was hard to keep up with Dean with his legs wrapped in the cloak. Not only that; everything about being human felt clumsy, uncoordinated. How could they stand not being able to fly? Castiel was already tired of it.

The feel of Dean’s fingers interrupted his brooding.

“Take my hand, sire.”

Castiel could just make out Dean’s visage in the dim light that filtered in through the tower’s arrowslits. He really did have beautiful eyes, and they were made even more gorgeous by the devotion with which he regarded Castiel. As Castiel slipped his hand into Dean’s, he felt a twinge of…something. Something other than animus. Something vaguely like attraction.

Well, that was ridiculous. Leaving aside the fact that their first meeting had consisted of Dean stabbing and shooting him, they were different species. Dragons didn’t mate with humans, as far as Castiel knew—though, admittedly, he’d never mated with anyone, so he wasn’t the foremost authority on the matter. And from what he’d gathered from the more gossip-prone villagers, two males being together in that way was looked down upon among humans. Surely Dean, who exuded righteousness like the sun gave off warmth, would never contemplate such a thing.

They reached the stairwell again. It was brighter here, but Dean kept hold of Castiel’s hand. Castiel didn’t pull away. He told himself that it was because he didn’t want Dean to resume his worryguts routine.

At the top of this set of stairs was the chamber immediately below the roof. It had proper windows, so all its contents were visible: glazed urns, piles of gold coins, dishes of jewelry, chests filled with offerings that Castiel had never bothered perusing. He’d only ever wanted food, but it’d taken the villagers a while to realize that.

“Your Highness,” Dean murmured in awe. He let go of Castiel’s hand. “Look at this!”

“Yes, yes. Take whatever you want.” He ambled past Dean, straight down the middle of the room.

“Where are you going, sire?”

“The roof.”

“What?” Dean dropped the sapphire necklace he’d been appraising. “I can’t let you go up there alone. The dragon could come back.”

Castiel threw down the cloak in irritation and balled his fists.

“Enough of this. I survived seven years without you as my nursemaid. I—I—”

Castiel stumbled; he fell forward onto his hands and knees. The dusty stone floor swam before his eyes. He heard Dean’s voice: distant, then right next to his ear. He felt Dean’s hands around his waist and the warm cloak around his shoulders.

“Climbing up here was far too much exertion,” Dean was babbling. “I should’ve never—gods, I’m such a fool. My prince! Can you hear me? I hope you can hear me.”

Castiel rested his head on Dean’s chest, the silver cuirass cool against his temple. For the second time in less than a day, he lost consciousness.

* * *

Dean was stricken. The prince’s skin was pale, his breathing shallow and uneven. Dean had laid him out on his cloak and covered him with a tapestry he’d found rolled up behind a forest of pewter candlesticks. He’d considered running back to Baby for his waterskin, but that would involve leaving Prince Castiel by himself when he was in a dire state. So, for now, he sat and waited.

He truly was a failure as a knight. Every man, woman, and child in the Northern Kingdoms would curse his name through the ages. Dean Winchester, the blackguard who’d found the missing heir to the throne and led him to his death in the same day. Perhaps if he leapt from the tower now, no one would ever know. He was already a traitor, so it would only be fitting for him to take the coward’s way out.

Dean scooped up a handful of gold coins from the saucer by his knee and hurled them at the far wall. A long sob escaped his mouth. This had all happened because of his greed. He should have insisted on an immediate return to the village. The prince clearly wasn’t in his right mind—how could he be, after seven years as a dragon’s prisoner? It had been Dean’s duty to put his well-being before all else, and instead he’d thought of his coin purse.

“Dean?”

Dean gasped and dried his eyes.

“Yeah. Yes, your Highness. I’m here. I’m so happy to hear your voice.”

“What—” Castiel blinked up at the ceiling. “What happened?”

“You passed out. I think your body—it’s still weakened by your injuries. Perhaps your heart couldn’t take the walk up here.”

Dean thought he saw a flare of anger in the prince’s eyes. He certainly deserved it.

“Forgive me, sire.” Dean began to weep again. “I know I haven’t earned it, but please forgive me. This is all my fault.”

Castiel pushed himself up by his elbows, and Dean reached out to cradle his back.

“Well, it’s not _all_ your fault. I did demand to come up here.”

“You should rest longer, sire. We can stay the night here. It’s sheltered from the elements, and none of the entrances is large enough for the dragon to enter.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel said, sitting up. “Going down will be easier than coming up, in any case.”

Dean dried his eyes with his handkerchief. “I don’t know what the right thing to do is.”

After a few seconds, he felt Castiel’s hand on his knee.

“Let’s continue. I think I can walk, as long as you help me.”

“Allow me to carry you, sire.”

“No, that won’t do. You have enough extra weight to carry with all that armor.”

Castiel scrambled up; the tapestry fell away to reveal his nude body. This was the fourth time Dean had seen it, and the first from behind. It was curious how little the prince cared about his own modesty. Perhaps the dragon had forced him to go without clothes all this time, and Castiel had simply become inured to it.

“Your Highness,” Dean said, gathering up the things beside him and standing up. “I looked through the dragon’s hoard and found some provisions for you while you slept. A set of clothes, a pair of shoes.”

Castiel took the first item and began dressing himself with some difficulty. He struggled to get his first foot through his underwear, and Dean had to help him, taking great pains to keep his hands clear of the prince’s private areas. Once he was clad in the tunic, trousers, and socks, Dean fitted the shoes on his feet and tied them loosely. They were a bit too tight, but they’d break in over time.

“I’m sorry they’re not the silk you’re used to.” Dean smoothed down Castiel’s sleeves and pulled the laces at his tunic’s neckline to even them out. “But will they do for now?”

“They will. Compared to what I had before, they’re luxurious.” He hesitated. “I thank you, Dean.”

Really, for having endured seven years in thrall to a dragon, his lord was remarkably lucid and charitable. But then, Prince Castiel had always been an exceptional man.

“I found these as well.” Dean held out a talisman on a silver chain and an orichalcum band. “It’s your necklace—the one you always used to wear—and your signet ring.”

“Oh.” Castiel received them and held them up to the light. “I haven’t seen these in a…very long time.”

A panoply of emotions flittered over Castiel’s face, and Dean wondered what he was feeling. It had to be hard for him, being reminded of his previous life, of all that had been taken from him. To lose his memory on top of that—Dean wasn’t sure whether that was a further curse or a blessing.

“I remember,” Castiel whispered.

“Sire? What do you remember?”

Castiel rubbed his forehead. “It’s—it’s like my mind is consumed by a fog. I can make out shapes, shadows, but no more.”

“Perhaps once you eat and sleep—”

“Yes, you already said that,” Castiel said irritably. He put the talisman around his neck and slipped on the signet ring. “Let’s go to the roof now. There’s something I need to check on.”

Without waiting for Dean’s answer, Castiel tottered to the narrow flight of stairs at the edge of the chamber. Dean hurried after him, and they emerged into the bright, hot day.

“What are all these?” Dean said.

“Beehives.” Castiel walked to the nearest one. “Let’s see.”

“That’s right, the villagers mentioned something about the dragon wanting not just honey, but the bees that produced it.” Dean started counting the ring of hives. “At least several dozen here. No wonder the forest was exhausted.”

“Oh, no,” Castiel mumbled. He bent forward, poking his nose close to the opening of one of the hives. “It’s worse than I thought.”

“Your Highness!” Dean strode up to Castiel and yanked him back. “Please be careful.”

“Unhand me,” Castiel growled, his voice going even lower than normal. “Have you forgotten yourself?”

“I’m sorry, sire. But I can’t let anything happen to you. Especially not after—”

“What’s going to happen to me?” Castiel struggled against Dean’s arms. “Let go of me this instant!”

Dean loosened his grip. Castiel spun around and scowled at him.

“The bees,” Dean explained. “If one of them stung you—in your already weakened state, I mean—”

“They won’t sting me.” Castiel waved his hand dismissively. “We know each other.”

“You…know each other?”

Castiel nodded sagely, and Dean found himself concerned again for his mental state. He was never sure, one minute to the next, how badly his prince’s sanity had been damaged by the dragon’s depravities.

“We’ve spent a lot of time together,” Castiel went on. “I love them.”

Dean looked around uncomfortably. He supposed that it was good that Castiel had had some company other than the dragon, but to refer to insects with such affection…perhaps he’d spent more time exposed to the full moon than Dean had realized.

“They’re not doing so well, though.” Castiel sighed. “It’s my fault.”

“You mean the dragon’s fault.”

“Yes, that’s what I meant.” Castiel walked to one of the hives. “Come on, help me lift this. We have to take them somewhere else.”

“What?”

“Is there dirt in your ears? I said to help me carry this!”

“Your Highness, there’s no way we’ll be able to carry this many hives with us. It would take us the entire day just to convey all of them to the base of the tower, and we don’t have a cart, so there’s no way for us to transport them down the mountain once they get there.”

Castiel put down the hive and grunted in frustration.

“If you’d like, I could gather some of the villagers and have them return the hives to the forest in the next few days. I’ll have to return here to scout the area again, anyway.”

“Very well,” Castiel said. He sounded fatigued again. “See that you do that.”

“I shall.” Dean approached him. “Will you allow me to take you back to the village now?”

“Yes.” Castiel cleared his throat. “If that will stop you from worrying, I mean.”

Dean smiled. “Thank you, sire.”

He led the way back down to the treasure room. There, Castiel encouraged him to take enough gold pieces to fill his coin purse.

“I ordinarily wouldn’t behave in such a mercenary fashion,” Dean said, his face flushing. “Usually, the money from the contract is enough. But if this will help me take care of you….”

For the first time, the prince seemed to smile. It was a sudden, fleeting thing, like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky. Dean felt his blush deepen. He wasn’t entirely sure why.

“Then, let us go.” Castiel offered Dean his hand. “Lead the way, brave knight.”

Dean slipped his hand into Castiel’s. Even through his metal gauntlets, Dean could feel his prince’s tight, reassuring grip. He couldn’t believe how much his fortunes had turned around in just a day’s time.


	3. Chapter 3

The journey to the village took them the rest of the day. They had to descend the mountain—slowly, since Castiel wasn’t adept at riding on horseback and Dean had to walk alongside—and then cross the plain to the other side of the valley, where Pontiac lay at the edge of the yellowing forest.

Most of the way down passed in silence. Dean, predictably, focused all his energies on ensuring the route ahead was safe for “his prince,” his face a mildly constipated clench of concentration the few times Castiel got a look at it. Castiel, fatigued by the climb to the tower’s roof, was hardly feeling more talkative.

Once they got to level ground, emerging from the shade of the larches into the sweltering daylight, things seemed to shift. Dean’s gait relaxed, and he even shot a hopeful smile now and again up at the saddle. Castiel finally returned one.

“Is there something you wish to say?” Castiel said.

“Not exactly.” Dean wiped the sweat from his hairline. “I’m just elated to see you, your Highness.”

“So you keep saying.”

“This is the first good turn of fortune the Northern Kingdoms have had since…well, since your disappearance. If only your father were alive to welcome you home.”

Castiel looked down at his signet ring. He supposed he should show some care for this man who was supposed to have sired him.

“My—my father is dead?”

Dean faltered before responding.

“I’m sorry, sire. I should have waited until you were fed and rested before telling you. It’s just—he’s been gone for so long, I’m used to speaking of his absence in passing. He went to the fields of the gods five years ago. Many say he died of a broken heart after not being able to locate you.”

“A broken heart? Did someone shoot him?”

Dean squinted up at him. “No? It’s an expression.”

“Oh, I see what you mean.” Castiel looked away. “The dragon had a preference for speaking literally. I’ve only had him to talk to for so many years. I’d nearly forgotten what it’s like to talk to other humans.”

“I can’t imagine,” Dean said softly. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that any longer, sire. I’m here now.”

“My hero.”

Castiel had intended for it to come out sardonic, caustic, but there was enough sincerity when it left his tongue for Dean to blush and stare down at the dust clouds underneath the horse’s hooves. Clearly, Castiel had a long way to go before he mastered the modulation of human speech. If he kept making mistakes like this, Dean would start to believe—worse, behave—as if Castiel were soft on him. Which was the exact opposite of reality. He hated him. Hated his shining armor, his broad shoulders, his verdant eyes and lush lips—

Castiel soughed.

“Sire? Is something the matter?”

“I don’t know. Um…my throat feels dry.”

“Of course. You’re probably dehydrated from all this heat.” Dean grimaced as he loosened a canteen from Baby’s flank. “There isn’t much left, but it’s all we have until we get back to the village.”

Castiel took a small sip, noting how ludicrous his predicament was. He, a thunder dragon, a primeval force of nature who could call down a deluge with a mere thought, was thirsty. And all because of a single crossbow bolt, ensorcelled with binding magic, that this puny human had shot through his heart. The same human whose saliva he was now sharing. Castiel cringed in disgust.

“Here.” He offered the waterskin to Dean. “You should have the rest. You’re the one walking.”

“No,” Dean said adamantly. “I’m fine. You have it.”

“I’ve had enough. If you pass out from the heat, who will look after me?”

Dean wavered. He looked at the canteen and licked his lips.

“I’ll command you to drink it if I have to,” Castiel said.

Dean snorted and took the bottle. “Very well, sire. Because you insist.”

Castiel watched Dean’s Adam’s apple bob as he quaffed long, grateful gulps. Beads of sweat rolled down his glistening, sun-kissed skin.

“Humans need so much water,” Castiel said absently. “Compared to dragons, I mean.”

Dean gave him a queer look. Castiel turned his eyes to the cloudless sky.

“How’d you manage all these months, anyway?” Dean capped the canteen and restrung it to the horse’s side. “The villagers claim there’s been no water in the valley for months. I suppose Blue-Eyes must have been providing you with food and drink somehow, though.”

“Um.” Castiel pressed his lips together as he tried to come up with a plausible answer.

“It’s fine if you’re not ready to discuss it, sire. I imagine it must distress you to be reminded of your captivity.”

“I—” Castiel returned his gaze to Dean. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I didn’t require nourishment. Nor clothing for warmth, nor shelter for good health. Not for all these years. As long as I was…near the dragon, I had all I could desire.”

“I feared as much.” Dean gave a sorrowful shake of his head. “Your Highness, you’re describing symptoms of thralldom. Thralls can subsist on a dragon’s lifeforce, but their minds are no longer their own. They only think of pleasing their lord. The link can be broken by the incapacitation of the dragon, but it takes time for a thrall to recover all his faculties. Er, respectfully.”

Castiel shrugged. He was just glad that he’d stumbled into an explanation that Dean was willing to accept. One he’d offered up himself, no less.

They continued on for a while in quiet. Dean seemed to sense that Castiel wished to be alone with his thoughts and occupied himself with humming and whistling tunes that Castiel didn’t recognize. Though the fog that hung over the recesses of his mind remained stubbornly thick, the ride to Pontiac at least gave Castiel some time to settle into his ungainly limbs, narrow waist, and disproportionately large head. With each passing furlong, Castiel felt more comfortable in his new skin, if comfort were a notion that could be applied to a body this soft and vulnerable. He’d never missed scales more.

By the time they arrived outside the largest building in the village, Castiel was confident enough to slide from the horse’s back before Dean turned to catch him. Dean beamed.

“It’s already coming back to you, sire.”

Castiel tilted his head. “What is?”

“Horsemanship. You were the rider every one of us squires aspired to equal back then.”

“Was I?” Castiel sighed. “I don’t remember that.”

“I’m sorry. Does it bother you, sire? That I keep bringing up things from the past?”

“No, not at all. Perhaps—” Castiel thumbed the talisman around his neck. “Perhaps these memories of yours will jog my own.”

“That was my thinking.” Dean smiled, then indicated the building’s front door a few steps away. “This is the village inn. I was thinking we’d stay here for a night or two, at least until you regain your strength.”

“Very well. I’m about done traveling for now, in any case.”

“I’m afraid we’ll be living humbly for a while, your Highness. There aren’t many amenities this far from one of the capitals or market towns. The beds will be straw, not the feathers you’re accustomed to. And the only food on the menu may be turnip stew and stale bread.”

Castiel grinned. “Considering I’ve spent the better part of a decade bewitched by a dragon, all of that sounds like a definite improvement.”

Dean laughed. He began unlooping various bags and packs from Baby.

“Sire, you don’t know how good it is to hear you jest. When I found you, I feared—well, I worried that it might take a long time for you to recover from your ordeal. But it seems like you’re well on your way back to your normal self.”

Castiel watched Dean’s back as he gathered up the rest of the paraphernalia and stabled the horse in one of the covered stalls. Given that returning to his normal self would involve a transformation back into one of the dragons Dean hated so much, he found his enthusiasm for it darkly humorous.

They entered the inn; Dean laid down a gold piece on the counter and asked the woman behind it for two tankards of ale and their nicest room. The woman’s daughter showed them to it, up the stairs and to the end of the hallway, and brought out from one of the cabinets a washbasin, a ewer, a chamber pot, and some folded linens. Castiel sat in a chair by the corner window and looked out at the countryside while she and Dean talked.

The earth was parched. Castiel could see that much more clearly from here than from the view he was accustomed to, far above the world. Waves of dust and heat shimmered in the late afternoon light, and the dead grass and dry wooden houses seemed ready to ignite at any moment. He felt a twinge of pity for the people here, especially now that he knew how thirst felt.

“You really drove him off?” the innkeeper’s daughter cried.

“I did,” Dean boasted. “The foul beast will think twice before darkening this valley with his shadow again.”

Castiel twisted in his seat to look at them. Dean was leaning one of his hands into the doorframe, bending in towards the young woman with a familiarity that Castiel found odd, considering they’d just met.

“Do you think the rains will return now?” said she.

Dean hesitated.

“Why would they do that?” Castiel said, drawing their attention. “This valley only received the water it did for so many years because of his favor. If one’s goal were to return rain to this place, killing or…disabling the dragon would be a strange way of going about it.”

The two of them fidgeted in the doorway. The innkeeper’s daughter opened her mouth around a question, but Castiel spoke before her.

“Leave us now. I’d like to rest.”

Castiel turned back to the window. A few seconds of thick silence passed before Dean uttered thanks for the room and shut the door.

“I’ll make up the bed for you, sire,” Dean said. “I’m sorry for chattering idly with her. I should have been thinking of your needs instead.”

Castiel grunted.

“You should’ve seen her face just now.” Dean chuckled. “If I hadn’t been here, I imagine that ewer would’ve met the back of your head. She has no idea you’re a prince. We’re far from the Northern Kingdoms, and you’re dressed like a commoner.”

“How far are we?”

“From Providence? A week on horseback, at least. Assuming there aren’t any problems on the roads. Six days to Lawrence, or what’s left of it. Mount Lebanon is closer. We could get there in four days. Since it’s a neutral kingdom, the way there is usually clear of soldiers. Or of wild animals feasting on carrion.”

Castiel turned around. Dean was tucking one of the linens around the lumpy mattress.

“Is there a war?”

Dean paused and stared out the room’s other window. He gave a grim shake of his head.

“There is, sire. After the king died, all the northern lands were drawn into Providence’s succession crisis. That was one of the reasons my brother and I left and settled in Mount Lebanon. One of the reasons I struck out on my own as a knight. Not that there was a good alternative, with the knighthood splintered among the various pretenders to the throne.”

“I see.”

“But—” Dean turned to him with a look of childlike hope. “That’s all over now, sire. Now that you’re back, we have our rightful king. The people will unite behind you. You can bring peace and prosperity to the Northern Kingdoms once more.”

Castiel frowned. “You overestimate me. I don’t even remember who I was.”

“Not yet.” Dean strode over, squatted down in front of Castiel’s chair. “But the people remember you. And you’ll return to your old self eventually. I know you will, sire. You’re so strong, so brave. What’s ahead of you is nothing compared to what you’ve already overcome. You’ll save us.”

“Dean,” Castiel sighed.

“I’m sorry. I’m overwhelming you.” Dean rose up and held out his hand. “Come, sire. The bed is ready.”

Castiel accepted his hand. Dean led him to the mattress and opened the casement window above, letting in the early evening breeze.

“I’ll fetch some water so you can wash later,” Dean said, picking up the ewer.

“Okay,” Castiel mumbled.

“I’ll wake you up in an hour,” Dean continued. “Forgive me, sire, but you have to eat. You can rest again after that.”

Castiel murmured something indistinct in response. Sleep was already washing over him like cool water.

* * *

Dean spent the time while Castiel was asleep drinking downstairs. The single gold piece from earlier had been enough for their room, as well as buying food and ale for both of them for the next two days. Even so, Dean was pacing himself. The thought of being inebriated in front of his prince was too mortifying to contemplate.

Ellen and Ash had probed him about his encounter with Blue-Eyes, and he’d recounted the events faithfully. He’d asked Ash to organize a party the next day to retrieve the beehives, promising he’d accompany them for protection. Ellen, for her part, declined to provide any reward until Dean could provide clear evidence of Blue-Eyes’s fate. Dean couldn’t blame her. He’d just have to find what he could up at the fortress tomorrow.

“Hey,” Jo said. She plopped a group of tankards on the counter beside him and started drying.

“‘Hey?’” Dean chuckled. “Please, don’t stand on ceremony.”

She shrugged. “You didn’t seem like the sort who’d care about that. Your companion, on the other hand….”

“Watch it,” Dean said. “I won’t hear a word against him.”

“As you wish.” Jo narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “He’s important to you, then.”

“Yes. More important to me than anyone in the world, aside from my brother, perhaps.”

“I see.” Jo smiled at the empty tankards. “That explains the note of jealousy I detected in his voice before.”

“Uh.” Dean shifted on his stool. “No, that’s not how I meant it.”

“It’s fine. Unlike some of the backward folk in this town, I don’t think any less of men who prefer the company of other men.”

“That’s…nice. But as I said, I didn’t mean it that way. He’s my lord, that’s all.”

“Ah. That would explain his haughty demeanor.”

“What did I tell you? I won’t listen to you insult—”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I forgot that the highborn are beyond criticism.” Jo nodded at Dean’s tankard. “More ale?”

“I better not.” Dean stifled a belch. “I have to attend to my lord’s needs later.”

Jo raised her eyebrows.

“Serving him supper, helping him wash and dress for bed. Stop being insolent.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Where’s your mother? I think it’s time I took supper up to my lord.”

“‘My lord, my lord.’” She rolled her eyes. “I think she’s making carrot soup in the kitchen. I’ll go fetch her.”

Dean glared at Jo’s back as she disappeared through the rear doorway. He couldn’t recall a more impertinent serving girl, and he’d been to more than his share of inns and taverns.

He was gazing longingly at the bottom of his tankard, still waiting for Ellen to emerge from the kitchen, when he felt a hand clap his shoulder. Dean whipped around, one of his arms already raised.

“Whoa!” Ash cowered away. “It’s only me.”

“Don’t you know not to surprise a man like that?” Dean kicked out the stool beside him for Ash to sit. “Especially in a crowded tavern after sundown.”

“You’re right, sire. I was just excited. You’re the first ray of hope we’ve had in months.”

“Me?” Dean scoffed. “Save your praise for when the rains finally return.”

“Even if they don’t, at least we don’t have to fear the dragon’s wrath any longer. Um, about that. I’ve gotten together six men and four carts for tomorrow. I think that should be enough to bring down all the hives in one trip.”

“Good. We’ll meet here in the morning.” Dean glanced at him. “Is there something else?”

“I’m—well, I’m just wondering. Why’s it so important for us to retrieve those hives right away? Important enough that we have to do it tomorrow?”

“Because…because I’m returning there to scout for the dragon anyway. This way, I can protect you.”

Dean looked down at his tankard again. He didn’t like lying to a man who might very well be risking his life, but he wasn’t going to tell him that they were doing this because his prince had ordered it. It was too dangerous to allow the news that Castiel was alive to spread before he’d brought him to safety. That probably meant the citadel of Mount Lebanon, where Sam could shelter them until the prince had recuperated enough to make the journey back to Providence and take back what was rightfully his. Until then, all he would tell anyone was that Castiel was an unspecified lord and he, his knight.

“Ash, stop pestering him.” Ellen was approaching Dean from behind the counter, holding a tray with two bowls of dull orange soup and a round loaf of brown bread. “Here’s the food you wanted, sire. I can take it up if you want.”

“No, I’ll do it.” Dean looked over the tray. “Do you have any meats, cheeses? What about fruits or sweets?”

Ash chortled, nearly falling off his stool. Ellen shot him a look of warning.

“We barely have enough wheat for bread or roots for soup, sire. I’m sure your lord is used to more lavish fare, but all the gold in the Middle Kingdoms can’t make a harvest appear out of thin air.”

“I see.” Dean took the tray from her hands. “This will have to do, then. Thank you.”

“Actually—” Ellen reached for something behind the bar. “I do have a little mead left. How about you take it? As thanks for what you’ve done.”

She placed the bottle and two small cups on the tray. Dean nodded to her.

“I appreciate this. And once the hives are back in the forest, I’m sure you’ll be making mead again in no time.”

Dean walked up the stairs and closed the door of their room behind him. He set the tray down on the corner table and regarded Castiel. The prince was curled up tight, almost in a ball, and his face was the picture of tranquility. Dean was loath to wake him.

“Your Highness?” Dean sat on the bed, lay his hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

Dean shook him gently. Castiel burbled something that sounded like “bees” before finally awakening.

“What? Oh. It’s you.”

Dean snorted. “Sorry to disappoint you, sire.”

“No, it’s—” Castiel rubbed his eyes and blinked. “I was just dreaming.”

“Of bees?”

“Yes.” Castiel tilted his head on the pillow. “How did you know?”

“You were talking in your sleep.”

“Is that common?” Castiel frowned. “Do…most people talk in their sleep?”

“I’m not sure, sire. I haven’t slept with many people. Er, I haven’t stayed the night with many women.” Dean swallowed. “Anyway, it’s not a bad thing. Did I make you feel self-conscious by bringing it up?”

“No, of course not,” Castiel said dismissively. “I was merely curious. This all just feels so…new. Being human.”

Dean peered at him. This wasn’t the first time Castiel had expressed sentiments along these lines, and Dean never knew how to condole him when he did so.

“Being fully human, I mean.” The prince sounded flustered, and Dean nodded to show him that he sympathized. “Being in full control of my mind and body again. That’s what I meant to say.”

“I understand, sire. But you’re already doing so much better than you were this morning. When I found you in the ruins, you looked to be at death’s door.”

Castiel gave him a dark look. Dean winced.

“I didn’t mean any disrespect by that, your Highness.”

“Fine.” Castiel lay his head on the pillow again. “Why did you wake me?”

“Oh! I brought you supper. It’s carrot soup with bread. There’s some mead as well.”

“That doesn’t sound very good. I don’t want it.”

“There isn’t any other food. I’m afraid I must insist, sire. Your condition won’t improve if you don’t eat.”

Castiel groaned into the pillow.

“Sire?”

“You’re very annoying,” Castiel muttered.

Dean smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Take it however you like. I’m not getting up.”

“Don’t worry.” Dean sprang to his feet and made his way to the corner table. “I’ll bring it over. I’ll hold the food up to your mouth if I have to.”

“Ugh, fine.” Castiel sat up. “I’m coming. Anything to avoid that.”

Dean pushed in Castiel’s chair once he sat down. He sat across from him and picked up the mead bottle.

“Have some of this, sire. It’ll help you sleep tonight.”

“I doubt I’ll need any help with that. I feel exhausted.” Castiel slurped some of his soup. “Oh, this isn’t too bad. It’s sweeter than I expected.”

“Try dipping your bread in it. That helps with the staleness.”

Castiel tore off a hunk of bread and dropped it into his bowl. He took the offered glass of mead from Dean’s hand.

“To your health,” Dean said, extending his glass.

“What? Oh.” Castiel knocked his glass into Dean’s clumsily. “Thank you.”

They imbibed the mead. A look of delight spread across Castiel’s face.

“Dean,” Castiel whispered. “This—this tastes like honey!”

“Well, it would. That’s what it’s made of.”

Castiel held the mead up to the candlelight, peering at it in wonder. Dean grinned.

“I knew you’d like it. All the squires knew about your sweet tooth. If any of us wanted to gain your favor, we’d present you with a gift of honey sticks.”

Castiel downed the rest of his glass. He signaled for Dean to refill him.

“Okay.” Dean unstopped the bottle. “But you should pace yourself. Especially since you haven’t eaten much.”

“Sometimes I think you’re the prince and not I, with all the orders you dole out.”

“I won’t apologize for that, sire,” Dean laughed. “When it comes to your well-being, I don’t mind being impudent. You can punish me for it once you’ve recuperated. Do anything you want with me.”

Castiel gave him a strange look. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d swear there was desire in his prince’s eyes. He dismissed it as a trick of the dim candlelight—either that or Castiel’s understandable eagerness to recover fully.

“Let’s finish eating,” Castiel said, after a long silence in which neither of them breathed. “Then we can wash and go to bed. This heat saps all my will to do anything but lie down.”

Dean picked up his spoon, offering Castiel a small smile. For some reason, he couldn’t get the way the prince had looked at him out of his mind.

Clearly, the heat was affecting him too.

* * *

After supper, Dean took their dishes down to the kitchen while Castiel washed at the basin. He scrubbed his face with a rag, stripped off his shirt and splashed water onto his skin, cleaned the dirt from his calves and feet. It all felt unbearably cumbersome.

“Once, I soared through mighty thunderheads when I wanted to bathe.” Castiel flung the dirty rag at the floorboards. “Now I’m reduced to this.”

As if on cue, the man responsible for his predicament reentered the room, bolting the door behind him. He glanced at the rag, then at Castiel.

“Did you manage it, sire?”

“Can’t you tell? I’m no longer caked in dirt all over.”

Dean seemed amused by that. Castiel wanted to zap him. Preferably somewhere tender.

“Well, I suppose I better wash as well, now that you’ve finished.”

Dean unbuttoned his doublet, shrugged it off, pulled his undershirt over his head. He removed his shoes and unlaced his trousers. Once he was naked except for his shorts, he folded everything neatly and placed it on one of the chairs at the table.

“Perhaps I could wash our clothes tomorrow evening.” Dean picked up Castiel’s discarded rag and hung it on the windowsill, then dipped a fresh one into the washbasin. “As soon as I return from the mountain. They should be dry by the next morning.”

“I’ve already used that water,” Castiel said.

Dean had started rubbing the wet rag over his face, through his hair, around his neck. He shrugged his bare shoulders, the corded muscles there slowly rippling in a way that Castiel couldn’t stop himself from openly admiring.

“I don’t mind washing with your used bathwater, sire. It doesn’t look that cloudy.” Dean sighed and started rubbing under his armpits. “Although, I suppose it wasn’t a proper bath. We’ll probably have to wait until we get to a larger town for that. Mount Lebanon has wonderful public baths, though my brother also has a tub in his home if you’d prefer a private one.”

“Is that where you’re planning to take me next? Your brother’s house in Lebanon?”

Dean closed his eyes and rolled his neck. “I think it makes the most sense. He’s a wizard who works for the duke there. He knows a great deal of healing magic, so I’m confident he’d be able to help with your memory. And any other lingering issues.”

Castiel pondered that. He didn’t particularly like the idea of meeting the sorcerer who was responsible for the enchantment that had forced him into a human body, but perhaps he could look through the man’s belongings and find some way to reverse it.

“Of course,” Dean said. “It’s not just my decision. If you have a better plan, please tell me.”

“I see. So I have a say in this. Unlike supper.”

Dean laughed. He finished washing his feet and stood up to stretch. His long, damp body glistened in the candlelight.

“Don’t pout, sire. You know I only do what’s best for you.”

Castiel scrambled up from the floor and crawled into bed. He faced the wall, trying to banish the intrusive fantasies that Dean’s naked body was provoking in him.

“Sire?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “Yes, I do know that.”

“You’re not cross with me, are you? Have I overstepped?”

“No. I’m just…tired. I think I better go to bed now.”

“Ah. See, I told you. The mead’s relaxing, isn’t it?”

He couldn’t deny this, but Castiel had the feeling that the mead was doing other things to him beyond just relaxing his body. Things like making him want to take Dean in his arms and mate him. At least, Castiel hoped it was the mead that was responsible for that.

Some scuffing on the floorboards interrupted Castiel’s brooding. He peeked over his shoulder. Dean had laid out a sheet on the ground and was now picking up his folded-up cloak from his stack of belongings by the door.

“Is that where you’re sleeping?” Castiel said.

“It is, sire.”

“Don’t you want to sleep on a bed?”

In the half-darkness, Dean looked puzzled, or wary, or intrigued, or some combination of all three. With only a single candle to see by and only a day of comprehending human emotions behind him, Castiel couldn’t be completely sure.

“I’ve slept on my share of floors in my time.” Dean tumbled down to the wood and lay his head on the cloak. “Besides, there’s only one bed in here.”

His last sentence hung in the air, awkward in a way that Castiel didn’t entirely understand. The cool crossbreeze through the casement windows caressed Castiel’s skin, and he sighed involuntarily.

“I—I wasn’t implying anything, sire. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

“What are you talking about? Implying what?”

“Uh, nothing. I’m speaking arrant nonsense. Ignore me.”

Castiel sighed again. The wind licked the perspiration from his back, and he groaned with irrepressible pleasure.

“Sire?” Dean’s voice was huskier than before. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. The night air is just so refreshing after all that heat.”

“Ah. Yes, I agree. Actually, perhaps I should close one of the windows. I don’t want you catching cold.”

“Leave them.”

“I don’t know,” Dean said pensively. “It’s nice, but the temperature will go down even further, and your collapse this morning has me worried still—”

“You misunderstand me,” Castiel said. “I’m your prince. I’ve commanded you to leave the windows open, and so you shall. The matter is closed.”

Dean chuckled. “Of course, my prince. I’m sorry for being pert.”

“I’ll think of a way to discipline you later,” Castiel murmured. “Let’s go to sleep now.”

Dean laughed again. After a moment, he said something that sounded like it was meant for him just as much as Castiel.

“It’s good to see you getting back to your old self, sire.”

For a fleeting second, Castiel wished that Dean were right—that his old self really were the kidnapped prince that Dean believed would save his kingdom. Despite what he’d done to him, Castiel couldn’t help but feel a certain affection for this knight, with his guileless awe and unending devotion. Even though he wanted to return to his dragon form more than anything, he wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable hurt and betrayal in Dean’s eyes as much as he had been that morning.

Too much heart had always been his problem. It’s what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

Castiel closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around himself. He drifted off to sleep with the cool wind on his back, just as he had for as long as he could remember.

* * *

Dean woke up to a cold room and the sound of sobbing. He cast the thin sheet off his body and leapt up.

“Sire?” He crouched down to the bed, lay his hand on Castiel’s arm. “What’s wrong?”

Castiel slapped his hand away. “No!”

Dean drew back, stunned. Castiel sobbed again. His shoulders were shaking.

“Where am I?” Castiel shouted.

“You’re—you’re at the village inn, your Highness. With me, Dean. Your loyal knight.”

The prince whimpered. Dean sat down beside him and soothed his back.

“I’m here, my prince. You’re safe.”

“Don’t touch me,” Castiel growled. “I hate you.”

“Sire, please. It’s okay. It’s me.”

“What?”

“You were having a nightmare, that’s all. I’m not the dragon. You’re not his prisoner anymore. I freed you.”

Castiel let out a long sigh. His breaths seemed to be returning to normal.

“You’re freezing,” Dean observed. “I told you we should’ve closed those windows.”

Castiel shook his head stubbornly. “Leave them open.”

Dean thought better of arguing with him when he was in this state. Instead, he picked up his sheet from the floor and draped it over Castiel.

“What are you doing?”

“Take my blanket, sire. You may be able to force me to leave the windows open, but I won’t let you be cold.”

Castiel rolled over to look up at him. His eyes glinted in the moonlight.

“And what about you?”

Dean rubbed his hands over the bare skin of his arms and chest.

“I’ll manage. I can always get dressed again if I need warmth.”

Castiel’s eyes traveled down Dean’s body, stopping at his navel. His tongue darted out for a fraction of a second.

“You could…share with me,” Castiel said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Then you wouldn’t be cold. Neither would I.”

“Um. Are you sure? It’s not a very large bed.”

Castiel just lifted the sheets in response.

“If that’s your wish. Just let me know if you get uncomfortable, and I’ll return to the floor.”

Dean crawled in beside him, and Castiel let the sheets go. The feet of the bed squeaked on the hardwood for a few seconds as they moved around on the lumpy straw mattress, adjusting to one another’s presence.

“How are you feeling, sire?” Dean said, once they’d both settled in.

“Warmer,” Castiel said. He suddenly sounded fully awake, and Dean turned his head on the pillow to look at him. He was staring up at the ceiling, his lips slightly parted as if considering further words.

“Good.”

Castiel glanced at him. Dean smiled.

“My skin itches,” Castiel added. “It’s uncomfortable.”

“Ah. Those’re just bedbugs, most likely. You’re probably not used to them.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” Castiel said, though the tone of his voice indicated that he didn’t think Dean was right at all. Dean didn’t know how to interpret that.

“I’ll smack the mattress more tomorrow. That should shake them out.”

“Okay.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Sire?”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure this is okay?”

Castiel flipped onto his side to face him. Their faces were only a few inches apart on the pillow now, and Dean could even smell his prince’s scent. It was pleasant and surprisingly fresh, given they’d spent the entire day wayfaring. He smelled like the promise of rain, like the deceptively warm air that descended from the heavens just before the sky opened up around a thunderstorm.

“What do you mean?” Castiel finally replied.

“I mean, the two of us. Sleeping beside one another. Isn’t that unbefitting?”

Castiel tilted his head up from the pillow. “Because we’re both men?”

“No, because—because you’re the crown prince, and I’m only a knight. What right do I have to share your bed, even just in this way?”

“Your right comes from me asking you to join me.”

“Perhaps,” Dean said reluctantly. “I still don’t think I deserve this.”

“Hey.”

Castiel shifted under the sheets, reached one of his hands up to Dean’s cheek. At the moment of contact, Dean felt a sharp sting there, like the sparks that used to dance up from Sam’s gold alchemical equipment in the arid winters on Mount Lebanon. There was a crackle just below his ear, and Dean flinched back.

“What was that?” Dean said.

“It was—um—”

“Did you feel that?” Dean blinked. “It was like…electricity. Didn’t you notice?”

“I’m not sure.” Castiel averted his gaze. “It was probably just how dry the air is. Sometimes that happens.”

“Huh.” Dean settled back into the pillow. “It felt funny.”

Castiel shrugged. He rolled onto his back again and closed his eyes.

“I—I appreciate what you were doing, though,” Dean said hastily. “It was kind of you to reassure me like that. With your touch.”

“It seemed like you needed it,” Castiel said. “That it would convince you more than my words. You’re not the best listener.”

Dean laughed. “May I take that as a compliment too, sire?”

“If you like.” Castiel pulled the sheets further up his chest. “Let’s sleep now. You need the rest for tomorrow. I don’t want you dropping any of the beehives.”

“Yes, sire.”

There was a hint of a smile on Castiel’s lips. Dean watched his prince’s face under the watery moonlight, matching every line and hair and curve to his hopeful adolescent memories, before finally joining him in slumber.


End file.
